Somehow I’ve developed secret signals that repel available men or men with a penchant for commitment yet simultaneously attract married men or any of the others who don’t want anything more than sex. Or maybe it’s just that the numbers are in my favour. I don’t say any of this to Fi. I turn back to her question and simplify.
‘I’m not threatening. I don’t want to be someone’s girlfriend, or, horror of horrors, wife. Therefore I’m not a risk. I never demand. I never call at inconvenient times; I never criticize his wife-slash-girlfriend. And in return he has no right to ask me where I’m going or when I’ll be back. He has no ability to make me fall in love with him.’
Fi stares at me. It may be that she is impressed. It may be that she is horrified. It may be that she is pissed.
‘Christ, how depressing,’ she moans.
‘Tell me I’m wrong,’ I challenge.
We are both silent for a long time. Eventually Fi suggests, ‘Another bottle?’
I return from the bar with a bottle and, because we both need cheering up, a couple of bankers.
‘Fi, let me introduce Ivor Jones and Mike Clark. They’re bankers.’ Fi starts to giggle. ‘That’s with a “b”,’ I hiss through clenched teeth. I’ve seen Ivor and Mike in this pub before. Over the last couple of months we have nodded to each other and occasionally I’ve accepted a drink from Ivor. They’ve been watching us all evening. Then I started to watch them watching us. When it got to the point of them watching us watching them watching us I knew it was time to say hi. They are well and identically dressed. Dark Boss suits, striped shirts, probably off-the-peg rather than Savile Row, saffron Hermes ties. They probably don’t even know they are saffron – they probably describe them as yellow. Ivor distinguishes himself by having a killer Welsh accent that largely renders him incomprehensible but is very sexy. I don’t mind incomprehensible. Most importantly Ivor is wearing a wedding ring and so I leave Mike to Fi.
Ivor’s attractions are not what one would describe as classical. His face reminds me of a soundly slapped bottom. He is pale with a sprinkling of freckles and a small snub nose. On the other hand he is tall (six-foot-two-ish), ridiculously intelligent and appallingly arrogant. Besides which he is begging for it. It would be rude not to sleep with him. His hungry, alert eyes bore into me as he showers us with awful sexist jokes. As he hands round bottles of Becks he asks, ‘How many men does it take to open a beer?’ Without waiting for a reply he tells us, ‘None. It should be opened by the time she brings it.’ Mike and Ivor laugh heartily. I do too, even though I’ve heard the joke before. Fi scowls. Ivor is doing an emotional borderpoint check patrol. Just checking the amount of commitment I’ll require. If I take his blatantly offensive jokes seriously he knows he’s on dangerous territory. If I don’t nettle but counter with a few sheep-shagging jokes, he knows he’s in the clear. Ivor catches Fi’s scowl.
‘Oh, no offence. There’s nothing worse than a male chauvinist pig, is there? Well, except a woman who won’t do what she’s told.’ Again he laughs. Fi is obviously unimpressed. I’m refreshed to find a man who is honest enough to tell it as he sees it. However, for Mike’s sake I hope he tries a more conventional chatting-up approach with Fi. If I could, I’d advise chocolates and compliments.
Ivor is bored with trying to control the group dynamics and his interest now lies in drawing me into a more intimate conversation. He takes advantage of Fi going to the loo and Mike going to the fag machine to invade my body space. He’s sitting on my right and he edges closer. I have nowhere to move, even if I wanted to. He puts his left arm along the back of the scruffy tartan settee. It reminds me of being in the pictures, aged thirteen.
‘So how old are you, Cas?’
‘Thirty-three.’ I never hesitate here. I’m proud to be thirty-three. I think it has much more kudos than, say, twenty-six or eighteen. I certainly feel better than I did then. It’s only women who have a biological Timex who have a problem with saying their post-thirty ages out loud. Pointless really – it’s not as though denial will turn the hands back. Anyway, I know I don’t look thirty-three. As if to prove a point and somewhat predictably, Ivor raises his eyebrows. He doesn’t bother with the cheap compliment that I don’t look my age. He knows I’ll have been told this often enough. Instead he keeps the conversation on track.
‘So when are you going to settle down and make an honest man of your boyfriend?’
‘Honesty is not my thing. I don’t have a boyfriend and I don’t want to be a wife.’ I smile efficiently. So Ivor’s scored a hat trick, discovering the three most important facts in one conversational turn. He taps my leg with his right hand.
‘You’re a wicked woman, Cas.’
This isn’t strictly true. But for immediate purposes it will do as a character ensemble.
‘So what do you want?’
I could tell him that I want world peace. I want Issie to find the man of her dreams. I want Josh to stop having wet dreams. I want my mother to redecorate and I want massive ratings on the next episode of Sex with an Ex.
‘That’s for me to know and you to find out,’ I whisper as I move closer, allowing my breast to rub against his arm. I realize I’m not conforming to the traditional role of coy female. But playing hard to get is only useful if you want to keep the man in question, which I never do. I approve of the invention of paper knickers, cups, napkins, knives and forks. I adore the disposable. I smile broadly. He gulps his designer beer. Amnesia has hit. The words ‘for better, for worse’ etc. are temporarily erased from Ivor’s mind.
‘You know, just before you joined us Fi and I were discussing the fact that I make an adorable mistress.’ My voice is devoid of emotion and I could have just commented on the autumnal weather. The contrast between the piping hot statement and the Arctic delivery causes Ivor’s cock to stiffen. It’s just too much fun to resist. I look from his cock to his eyes, back to his cock. His gaze follows mine. He blushes and crosses his legs. But to be honest, he hasn’t a chance. ‘You see, I enjoy it. All of it. Dressing up, having food eaten off me. I never worry that the chocolate ice cream will stain the sheets.’
‘Meet me outside in ten minutes,’ he says, leaving before he’s finished his beer. I wonder how he’s going to hold his erection for ten minutes, as he looks fit to explode. ‘I need to call my wife. It’s just—’ I stop him saying any more. I don’t need his excuses.
‘Save it for her.’
He shows willing, in fact much too willing. His enthusiasm briefly battles with his ludicrously macho self-image. The enthusiasm wins. Ivor manages to restrain himself in the short cab ride that takes us to a hotel, and whilst he checks in. If ‘restraint’ can be used to describe a man who is intermittently swilling out my ear with his tongue. However, somewhat disappointingly for us both, he shoots his load in the hotel lift. I have very little to do with the act. Besides being there. It’s a depressing thought, but I have to face it. He could have downloaded some images from the Pamela Anderson website. His premature ejaculation has sobered both of us. I’m left frustrated. Hardly the culmination to the evening celebrating my ratings that I was expecting. I stare at Ivor, who can barely face me. The lift stops.
‘I haven’t spoken to my wife for eighteen months.’ Inwardly I sigh. If I’d realized this I wouldn’t have touched Ivor with a barge pole. I look at him. He’s grinning. ‘I don’t like to interrupt her.’
Another one of his jokes. We are both relieved and indulge in juvenile sniggers. His humour, for what it is, has saved the day. It’s not that I think this man is particularly irresistible but I do admire an ability to laugh in the face of adversity. Although I no longer want carnal knowledge of him I am aware that he has just shed out £185 for a hotel room. The least I can do is help him attack the mini bar. By the time he unlocks the hotel bedroom door it’s pretty clear that neither of us wants sex. We do both, however, need a bit of a confidence boost. I’ve never had the Pamela Anderson thought before but now I can’t shake it.